September 1, 1971
by The Evil Duck
Summary: The Marauder's first day at Hogwarts and the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
1. Remus 6 AM

A/N: _Howdy! Anyway this is my first fic posted so... Yeah... stuff. I've redone this thing so many times I'm just sick of having it on my hard drive lol! But it's good so here it is! This fic is dedicated to Rachel "Moony" Schwarz who is at the moment in the hospital (Love you Rach!), Josh Bruckner (The greatest Hufflepuff there is who let me cry on his shoulder when we saw GOF and didn't complain even though I soaked his hoody), and it is not dedicated to Max Hahlbeck (who told me to STFU when we saw GOF resulting in me giving Max the finger and calling him an insensitive boob) am I rambling? Why yes I may be! D! Enjoy!_

Remus Lupin

3 Apollo Avenue

Gibbous, Scotland

6:00 AM

The old, bronze-colored alarm clock ticked deafeningly forward another second and Remus Lupin jumped, just as he had done every second for the past ten hours. His eyes focused hard on the numbers circling the clock, trying to make sense out of them and force away the nightmares that consumed him in the long moments between the stokes of the clock. These were night terrors with yellow fangs hot as fire, hungry and perversely delighted howls (that reverberated painfully in his ears as if someone had pounded them out on a drum where his thin featherless pillow was), and the image of a wolf, saliva whipping around its face, eyes burning alien green in the cool light of the full moon….

The clock ticked again.

The numbers of the tarnished clock were blackening with age. The slender minute hand, which was twisted inward slightly at the end so that it scratched the off-white surface of the clock's face to form a deep circular trench just below the numbers, was pointed at the twelve. The fat hour hand completed a line spanning the diameter of the clock by pointing at the six.

Six o'clock AM.

It was difficult to tell whether the clock was accurate or not as no light passed through Remus's window. The sunlight was usually diluted by the surrounding forest of pine and fir trees so that it entered the room green and blotchy, but now it was now totally obscured by angry gray clouds that stared malevolently down on the meager and quickly aging cabin that the Lupins owned.

Remus, John and Diana's only child, was very much like the house (and never more so then on September 1,1971, when both lay quaking softly, waiting to ride out their respective storms.) Both the house and the eleven-year-old bore the earmarks of premature wear and tear – Remus in deep shadows below his eyes, the wrinkles in his young face, and in the eyes themselves, which were like tiny, impenetrable doors, hiding an eighth sea of secrets and thought behind them. This caused the eyes themselves to chip and thin under strain so they looked transparent and exhausted most of the time. But not all of it...

Sometimes when they caught the light just right...

That was the other thing they had in common, both house and boy had something slightly peculiar about them. As aforementioned for Remus it was his eyes, for two more respects. First they didn't match his shabby almost monochromatic appearance. His face, his skin, even his hair was gray and old. So he resembled something like a walking talking black-and-white photograph, which had been lost for years in a forgotten cardboard box thrown into a flood of paper memories in a hot attic. But his amber eyes caught your attention almost instantly, and, if you looked at them long enough, you might see it...

It was a flicker, something alive and sudden like a candle lit in the wind: fast, furious, unexpected, but as quickly killed as born.

The house on the other hand, which was located just over the English-Scotish boarder almost in view of Hadrian's Wall, had something purely magical about it. The forest that surrounded it seemed to be alive with more than just squirrels and hedgehogs. The air itself was a living thing that whispered and laughed through the trees, resting in the curved branches with sprites and fairies. There was no road leading up to the house and practically no way of finding it, but it seemed content in its ivy covered solitude. It liked its privacy, as did Remus Lupin.

The second hand ticked again and Remus's heart was back in his throat, he gulped it down with effort. Five hours from that moment, five long, lazy ticks of the hour hand, three-hundred queer, slightly scraping ticks from the minute hand, three thousand-six hundred quick, knifelike ticks of the second hand and then, then his world would fall apart.

His life up until eleven o'clock that morning had been controlled by a single, uncaring force: the moon. He couldn't remember ever knowing anyone apart from his parents, because after **IT** happened and the moon took over his existence what few neighbors they had, had immediately moved away. There were pictures hanging in the hallways of the house of people whom Remus knew he was related to, but who had cut all ties to his family when** IT** happened as well. Because of **IT** Remus had never gone to school before and had never had a friend. It wasn't as if Remus didn't want these things – it was that **IT** made them impossible, so he had decided long ago not to even think about them.

So why was everything suddenly different? His eyes fell on the calendar pinned to his wall – the Monday after next was outlined in blood red, making Remus shiver. As long as the moon could still become full he could never have any of those things.

**IT** made it too dangerous, no, **he** made it too dangerous. He, Remus John Lupin, was a monster, the reason his parents were stuck in this horrible dive, unemployed and friendless. ** IT** had given Remus his "Condition" but it was that "Condition" that was causing all of these problems.

A thick, binding wave of self-hatred pulled him under, into his mind behind the locked eyes, where all quotation marks were taken away and replaced by the blaring truth:

**WEREWOLF**

The clock ticked, the door creaked, and Remus sat upright breathing heavily over his heart, which had once again clogged his airway.

"Remus?" his mother's tired voice asked, "good morning, sweetheart." She was standing in the half-opened door, pale blue eyes fixed intently on her panting son.

Diana Lupin was a forty-year-old woman who'd married into magic. Her black curly hair, which had grayed considerably over the past six years, hung loosely at her waist. She, like her son, resembled something forgotten, but beauty still clung, half-seen, in her features as if she was coated in a thick layer of dust. "Are you okay, Remus?" She asked pushing the door open a bit more.

"Yes," he lied.

"Good," she smiled at him making the sad circles under her eyes even more obvious, "come on, hop out of bed, you've got to be in London by eleven and your father says in order to get to the Portkey, or whatever it is, you have to be in town by nine and it's an hour to get there." She flipped a switch next to Remus's door and the overhead electric light sprang to life. (If Remus's father had been the one to wake him he would have lit the candles set in the lamp next on Remus's bedside table.) She smiled again, sipped the tea in her hand, and then turned to leave as soon as she saw Remus's feet successfully touch the floor.

"Mum," Remus called after her.

"Yes, dear?" she asked, "I didn't mean to be short with you, it's just we're in a bit of a rush this morning."

Remus inhaled and said very quickly, "Do you really think this is such a good idea? Sending me to school?"

Her smile faded, "if you lie low and do whatever Professor Dumbledore says you'll be fine."

Remus swallowed hard, openly unconvinced, "what if--what if--something happens? What if---I---I---hurt someone...?" he trailed off and shuttered. His mother did too, putting her free hand over her worn face as if trying to shut him out, an action that made Remus realize just how scared she was.

"I'm sure they've got something worked out for you like--like we do..." this time she trailed off, uncomfortable discussing her son's "Condition" or the terrible measures his parents had to take to keep themselves safe.

But the room in the basement was clear in both of their minds' eyes: the old wood door with the enormous iron padlock fastened to the front as well as enough locking and silencing charms to keep a bull elephant at bay, the single barred window facing the tiny backyard and wilderness beyond where Remus had met the wolf in the first place, and the chains that hung from the ceiling, still barring traces of the dried, crusted blood that had time and again been shed and then halfheartedly scoured away, the cold stone floor which turned from gray to red with new blood from Remus's self-inflicted wounds after every full moon...

"Your father says Albus Dumbledore is a brilliant man and an incredibly gifted magician. He'll know what to do--"

"Wizard," came a voice from behind her and John Lupin peeked into the door. "Not magician," he smiled wearily, dressed in a pair of old kakis and a worn sweater with patches on both elbows, "about ready to go in here?"

"Sorry, not quite," answered Remus.

"Come on, hurry up," said his father, his nervousness apparent as he bounced up and down on the balls of his feet, trying to hide the slight quake in his tired voice. He looked away from Remus embarrassedly as he often did, traces of guilt in his aging face.

"Breakfast is on the table for when you boys are ready," said Diana, shooting another worried glance back at Remus who smiled wearily at her, trying to lie with his eyes as he pulled out an outfit from his nearly empty chest of drawers.

John smiled quickly and just as unconvincingly at his boy before following his wife out of the room closing the door behind him.

Remus's gaze fell on the calendar pinned to his wall, slipped downward onto the trunk that had once belonged to his father, and then on the enormous purple scar spanning from his left shoulder to just above the elbow. He felt a knot form in his throat. This was going to be it, there was no way he was going to make it through this one.

He pictured the horrified tear-streaked face of his victim, the sickening joy he'd feel in the attack, and he felt like he was going to vomit. He saw the ministry hearing, the hollow faces of his accusers, the family who had lost their child in his fury, his own parents sick with grief, he pictured his death sentence, and the execution. He pictured the silver weapon used to kill those with his "Condition." He squeezed his eyes shut trying to make it all go away, but he knew that this was only the beginning.

The year hadn't even begun yet.


	2. James 8 AM

A/N: _I know this makes 2 posts in one night, but I figured, meh. I was told this one is good by my beta-reader and very reliable source Josh. This chapter is dedicated to Jake (be he Voldy-whore or not), Buddy (for being falsely accused by those bastards at A and P), but not to Baxter (for throwing a sandwich too near my face and for making fun of my HP obsession!) Love ya much! Enjoy!_

James Potter

7 Blanc Road

Queerditch Marsh, England

8:00 AM

"James..." Althea Potter's voice drifted into James' ears as if it was coming from very far away. James liked that idea and decided that it was true: his mother was a long way off and he was safe and warm in his bed. He smiled sleepily and rolled over so his nose was less than an inch away from his bedroom wall. His mother hammered against his door and the noise swam lazily to James like a fish though murky water; bumping here and there against his obscuring dreams until the sound became soft and gentle. "James Hart Potter are you awake yet?" she asked louder this time, jiggling the knob only to find that James had locked it, "oh honestly."

Her eleven year old son stretched resentfully, pulling the thick feather comforter over his head, perfectly content in its warmth. He yawned drowsily and was just beginning to drift off to sleep when his mother dosed him in cold water.

"What the---MUM?" James sputtered, sitting bolt up right, and throwing the sodden blanket to the floor. The water had soaked the comforter completly and James pulled at his wet pajamas that were stuck fast to his skin and wiped the hair out of his eyes.

Althea Potter laughed stopping the jet of water that was pouring from her wand tip, "that's what you get, I've been calling you for an hour."

"I know," James shot her a very dirty look as he ran his hand through his jungle of inky black hair. For most people the nearly gravity defying tangle would be given the title "Bed Head" but for James Potter this was as neat as his hair was going to get.

"Don't give me that look," his mother said her hands on her hips, "I have to get to the hospital and if you don't hurry I'll leave you here, you'll miss the train and then what will you do?"

Althea Potter was a healer at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. She was a very stern looking woman built like a pencil. Her hair was sensibly short and black as the night sky. Her eyes were brown and critical, but they still carried the sparkling secret love of mischief that had been genetically passed down to her son.

"There's always next year," yawned James looking down at his wet pillow but thinking better of sinking back into it.

"Up! Now! Come on!" She took her son by the hand and yanked him out of bed. James fell limply onto the floor. "You are impossible!" she snapped.

"I try," said James with another huge lion-like yawn.

"Breakfast is ready when his majesty is," his mother rolled her eyes.

"Appreciated," said James, "just put it in my mouth, right?" He laughed as his mother mock bowed out.

Still laughing he got up and looked at his reflection in the full length mirror hanging on his closet door. He began running his hands through his hair obsessively, trying to dry it off.

"You're doing it wrong," said his reflection, "you've got to flatten it."

"What do you know?" asked James turning his head to the side so he could see his hair in silluette.

"A lot more than you! I reflect people, I know what looks good," it told him pointing to its chest.

"Uh-huh." said James still running his hand through his hair and not really paying attention, "does this look windswept?"

"It looks scruffy and trampish." The mirror told him its arms crossed, "but you're not going to listen to me, are you?"

"Nope, I don't believe I am," said James pulling open the closet. The mirror swung open with the door still muttering about James to itself. Everything had been torn off the shelves and hangers inside the cavernous closet except for a black robe, a pair of blue jeans, and a t-shirt endorsing the Tutshill Tornados, who's seeker (a witch called Rachael Logan) was now folded up on top of his trunk in her poster, probably still looking for the pin prick snitch despite her handicap of being folded in on herself.

His room looked as though it had been suddenly gutted. The usual clutter was gone, the stacks of clothes so dirty they were starting to ferment were missing, the drawers had all been pulled open and emptied so they sagged sadly and pointlessly waiting to be filled. Paint was chipped on the wall showing where posters had once been taped (a few were still hanging up but James was taking his favorites with him, and those left behind looked at each other mournfully.) The usual cracks and bangs that poured out of his room had subsided replaced by an eerie ringing silence. The sight of his room clean, silent, and empty was discomposing to say the least.

But he was going to Hogwarts!

James grinned almost maniacally to himself thinking about Hogwarts. Both his parents had been in Gryffindor, they'd met there, fallen in love, planned out their futures, which had fallen like fairy tales into place. Both became highly successful members of the magical community. His mother Althea Jones-Potter became a healer and soon was the head of the ER at St. Mungo's in London. Harold Potter, his father, was the head of the entire Magical Law Enforcement Department. Both of his parents were proud to have come from Hogwarts holding the school responsible for their vast accomplishments.

When James's letter had come in June the Potters held a loud celebration. Letters poured in from his family telling him how wonderful it would be for him, what an enriching experience, how it could put him on the right track for great triumph, how with his given abilities and Dumbledore's godlike powers James could easily do anything he wanted.

Talk like this made him gag. He couldn't wait to go to Hogwarts because it gave him a chance to share his expertise with a much wider audience, as well as hone his skill.

James Hart Potter was a mischief maker, quite possibly the greatest one in existence. His parents had always gotten school reports home that said things like "not living up to his potential", "bright boy, but under motivated", and in the case of one thoroughly enraged music teacher from his primary school, "Satan".

James left his bedroom, which took entire basement along with his bathroom, and nearly galloped upstairs, giddy with anticipation. His mother and father were deep in conversation as James joined them grinning broadly.

"Morning James," said Harold Potter brightly, taking a long gulp of tea. He was a tall man, with dark brown hair and matching eyes. These eyes were more obviously those of a retired trickster, and though he'd long grown out of pulling pranks himself, he was much easier on his son than his wife was. He was slightly scruffy, his chin dotted with whiskers and his hair hanging like a mane around his face. "Excited?"

"Definatly!" Said James pulling a plate towards him and starting on the scrambled eggs his mother piled onto it.

"Worried?" asked his father watching his son scarf down his food.

"No," James shrugged, "should I be?"

Althea rolled her eyes behind her granny glasses giving Harold a secret look that she'd obviously given a meaning to earlier. James arched an inquiring eyebrow trying to figure out what their silent conversation was about, gave up, shrugged, and kept eating.

"Wonder what house you'll get into?" said Harold as Althea dropped into her own chair sipping her tea, strong, black, tea leaves only, no bags.

"Gryffindor," said James without looking up.

"What makes you say that?" asked Althea.

"Sixth sense," he tapped his nose knowledgeably getting egg on it.

Althea laughed, "we'll see what happens at the sorting, won't we?"

"How do they do it, anyway?" James asked, "do you take a test or something?"

"No," said Harold thumbing through the Daily Prophet, "much more intimate than a test."

"What do they have a bag or something and you pull out a stone, one for each house?" James was reading the front page of the Daily Prophet replacing his name in the headlines.

"No," laughed Althea, "how would that work?"

James shrugged, "I dunno, the ancient Britons used to do it instead of a trial, put three rocks in the bag one said innocent, one said guilty, and one said 'trinity' which meant like kind of guilty but also kind of innocent. Hogwarts is ancient, right? so you never know."

"James," said Althea magicing away the dishes, "if you know that why are your history marks so...so...did you blow up the teacher or something?"

"Honest answer?" asked James looking up at her.

"Don't tell me!" she said throwing up her hands, "I really don't want to know. Just try not to cause trouble at Hogwarts, okay?"

"Okay," said James truthfully. He was not going to cause trouble. He could promise her that. He was going to make mischief and if he was lucky maybe even a little mayhem.

_A/N: Okay, okay I know in the book the mirror talks to Harry, not the reflection, but I've ALWAYS pictured it as the reflection itself, which I thought was funnier...so...there you go! Peter and Sirius to arrive shortly...just as soon as I can catch Sirius and get Peter out of that dark corner in the side of my brain..._


	3. Peter 8:30 AM

_A/N: She...she updated it? Surely not...! (looks out window, watches for four ppl on motorcycles or flying Durer horses) XD! I finally decided I should finish everything I start, not just the Sirius thing. Anyway here it is. Chapter 3. Wow, like what 2 months after the first two chapters? Maybe less, maybe only one! ;P! So yeah. This chapter is dedicated to harrypotterfan52! You rock my world! Thanks for making me laugh when you posted this: "one more thing: don't worry so much about grammer and stuff. It is mice when authors double-check their work for erroes andstuff but don't stress so much over it. no ones perfect." LoL! This one's for you! And your cure for writer's block is one of the best out there. I always get my best ideas either in the shower/bath or walking home from school (so if you can't take a shower take a walk). Lots of less than threes to you! (which are hearts for those who don't know) Random fact about showers and writers - The guy who wrote Sparticus (whose name I can't remember) wrote the original screenplay and script entirely in the bathtub with his typewriter on a tray. So yeah, everyone go shower and get ideas. Not those kind of ideas! ;)! Oh and this is also dedicated to wolfwild because that review made me happy. I'm really proud of the descriptions in this story too and well, just thanks:)! This is not dedicated to all the rabidly anti Tonks/Lupin fans. Leave my OTP alone :shakes fist: _

_Everyone wish me luck! I'm applying to the Iowa Young Writer's Studio summer program! eeee! _

_-The Evil Duck _

Peter Pettigrew

360 Abject Street

Rockglen, England

8:30 AM

An alarm blared in the gray morning light. The clock threw itself back and forth, heaving like a child having a temper tantrum. On the cot a few feet to the right of the wailing clock the large lump in the mothball-smelling blankets stirred and a pale, thick hand snaked groggily forward fumbling with the vibrating bells until it managed to silence them. The blankets were then thrown back and Peter Pettigrew slowly opened his sleep-sealed eyes, shifting uncomfortably into conciousness on the stiff, rarely used cot. The last time he'd woken up in this house was almost five years ago, so it wasn't odd that when Peter fully awoke his tired mind was jogged to full shocked attention. He stared at the bumpy plaster ceiling for a few moments, hands behind his head, pale blue eyes wide, allowing the pieces to fall groggily into place:

It was his mother's house.

It was September 1: the first day of Hogwarts.

At 11 o'clock he'd leave on a train for his first year at the wizarding school.

Peter gave a nervous sort of twinge and rolled out of bed, his heart hammering at a dangerous speed. He looked at his reflection in the mirror hanging above the empty dresser, his round face flushed with excitement. Peter began to drag a plastic comb through his tangled blonde hair when his reflection winked warmly at him and told him in a voice that was not his own, "cheer up!"

Peter dropped the comb and let out a nervous high-pitched squeak. He tried to compose himself quickly, to convince himself that this was ordinary, everything was as it should be. But it took a very long time for his hands to stop shaking and even longer before he could so much as glance at the mirror again.

He just wasn't used to his mother's world...

His world...

Peter never had a great deal of influence from his mother. His parents divorced a few weeks before his sixth birthday. Due to his mother's busy schedule and the fact that she was rarely in the country for longer than a few months Peter spent most of his time with his father in London. It was, in fact, incredibly rare that he would see his mother at all, usually the only contact he'd have with her was the short letters she sent him from her frequent travels around the globe. These would also, occasionally, include her newest (and almost instantaniously best selling) book that she was promoting. These letters and books, delivered by owl, were his only tie to the wizarding world.

That is, until the previous March. He remembered the day vividly, his eleventh birthday. He didn't know it then but his parents each had his future riding on that day in a demented bet. No Hogwarts invitation and his father, Paul Pettigrew, won. Peter was a muggle and his muggle father would be able to send his son to the same business achademies that put him at the top. If the owl flew in through the window (which it did) his mother, Gloria Frost, won. Peter was a wizard and would be attending Hogwarts, and his life would be forever in her world.

This competive nature had led his parents to one another in the first place. Eleven years ago Gloria had been visiting her family in London and Paul was working in one of the huge new buildings towering like a sparkling mountain over the ancient ruins of old London. The pair met by chance and began to date. After a few months of one-uping each other with gifts, dinners, vacations, and other extravigences they got married.

Peter didn't know what made them do it. Maybe Paul thought it was the final step, that he'd won their phycotic love affair. But Gloria gave birth to their son, and Paul lost.

The fighting started soon after Peter was born. His parents both acted like it never happened, hoping that Peter was too young to remember, but somewhere in the deep dark reaches of his counciousness Peter did. He remembered them screaming at one another. He wondered now if it wasn't better that way instead of both pretending the other didn't exist.

He was pondering this question as he got dressed, pulling up and fasening his slightly too-tight pants. Peter's mind was wandering, as were his eyes as they made a slow panaramic circle around the sterile hotelish room. Peter was trying to get used the way the pictures moved, how his minute black and white mother smiled at him while bowing with a sparkling medal around her neck or waving a framed certificate high in the air in the strobe of a hundred camera flashes. Even the magazine covers of her perfect grinning face winked and pulled out copies of her latest book or the playbill form her new smash hit, breaking every record in boxoffice ticket sales.

Peter turned away to look at his trunk behind him, tracing his initials carved like caligraphy into the golden wood. He didn't know how he could be a wizard. He had never made his parents proud, he was never praised. His grades were unremarkable, he didn't have a strong point, he couldn't act, paint, sing, or write. He wasn't even handsome. He was bullied and picked on. He had never turned someone into a toad or made it rain. So what made him a wizard?

The door swung open and Peter jumped. "Mum!"

Gloria Frost stood in the doorway grinning warmly at him, just like all of her photos. She didn't look like she could be a mother, possibly an older sister but never a mother. She was very short and thin, with a soft glowing face, innocent bright blue eyes, long blonde hair that fell about her shoulder blades, and a blinding smile. She put her manicured fingers to her lips to hide it at the moment, "I'm sorry dear, are you alright?"

Peter nodded throwing on his shirt hastily, embaressed by his weight. He remembered how he was teased in PE for his overhanging stomach and chest. (The words "Lardo's got man titties" would echo forever in his head, still burning his cheeks years later) He didn't know whether anyone in that class, including the teacher, knew his actual name or if they thought he'd been christened Lardo or Blubber.

"I wasn't sure what I should have Twiggy make you for breakfast so I figured I should ask you," she gestured behind her where Twiggy, his mother's young House Elf, blinked up at him with a smile on her face. At first he'd found it horribly unnerving to know that his mother had what amounted to be a slave working for her until he found out that a House Elf was not only an honor but one of the highest signs of prestige. Peter found out that very few people, even in some of the oldest families, had House Elves.

He then knew that if worse came to worst he could mention that he had a House Elf. That would at least make him something. He'd be the boy with the House Elf.

That was better than the alternative, anything was better than the alternative of being invisible or constantly picked on.

Well...almost anything.

The worst thing to be known as was someone's son. At St. Hall's Academy the teachers knew him as Paul Pettigrew's boy. Paul had been brilliant, handsome, popular, he graduated head of his class, class president, captain of the football and rugby teams, and head of the Young Business Leaders of The United Kingdom. He was champien of everything he tried and brought great honor to St. Hall's when he became the youngest CEO ever seen in his field. He only stayed at this company for a few years before starting his own highly sucsessful business while earning his PhD in engineering and law degree on the side.

Peter was expected to do similarly and he failed miserably. He wasn't a horrible student, number one hundred fifty-eight out of two hundred and ten. He wasn't interested in big business or the economy; numbers made his head hurt. The teachers hated him simply out of disappointment. His father's favorite professor, a maths teacher named Achmed Badr, first looked at Peter with pride, but soon it became disappointment, then finally quiet loathing and disgust.

"Dear?" his mother asked in a way that made Peter wonder whether she'd forgotten his name. "Breakfast? what do you want for breakfast?"

"Nothing," he said honestly. He was far from hungry and he was sure even looking at food would make him horribly sick.

"Well that isn't very healthy," she frowned. "Breakfast is important...for a growing boy," she smiled lightly. "How about some toast then?" Peter nodded hoping to avoid conflect and she left, closing the door behind her.

"Hell," she muttered, "take care of him, I've got to get ready to break up with John." John was the latest in a long line of boy friends, each relationship lasting the span of a sneeze. "Just wait until eleven and then everything will go back to normal," she inhaled deeply and thoughtfully, "son of a bitch's fault really. We were never meant to be parents. But accidents happen, eh? Right, get him some toast."

He was invisible to her too, he realized. She didn't even notice that he could hear her. That he was a real person behind the white door.

This added dissapointment and the dizzying thoughts of Hogwarts made him feel light headed. Or rather, quite the opposite. His head felt like a weight and he fell backward onto the bed staring up at the ceiling, watching as his future played out like a poorly made home-movie.

Maybe, he thought, maybe at Hogwarts things would be different. Maybe he could be someone. He smiled gently to himself, invisioning trophies and awards with his name on them. He imagined everyone clapping and he wasn't anyone's son. He was Peter Pettigrew, and his pictures grinned and waved at people. He was a prefect, head boy, and every other honor he could think of.

But he couldn't think of any that he would be good at. Even in his dreams he was inept and disappointing. He got heavily to his feet. At eleven o'clock his school would change but he was almost positive everything else would stay the same.

_A/N: I don't know why this chapter took me so long to write...or rather, I do. Peter has always been the forgotten Marauder. People usually thing of a triumverate (or in some cases even only a duo) of Magical Mischief Makers which drives me NUTS! The Marauders could NOT exist without all four componants, of all the magic numbers in the world JKR might say 7 is the most important but personally I think 4 is the best balanced. That's what they are. They couldn't exist without Peter! So it was (and is) really important to me that I got it right. Peter in esence to me is just see-through. Not that he has some alterior motive, or weird intention that you can see immediatly, it's just that there's nothing there. Nothing to see. His answer is always "I don't know." ...anyway, I have a whole rant, if you're interested dig through my blog. _


	4. Sirius Black 10:30

_/N: At long last...sorry this stuffs been taking so long to write and upload, I've been really busy lately, what with studying for my SATs and everything. Anyway...this ones goin out to Kelly, Molly, Vivian, Lindsey (both of em), Jared, and everyone else in the Columbia HP club, and to Serpent91 and Lenarta (and in answer to your question I think Im going to keep this third person, switching off whose world were looking at. And I've got to agree that Remus's was the best chapter so far. :sigh: must work on keeping quality.) who gave me new resolve to work on Sirius's chappie. This is not dedicated to Josh because he's looking at colleges with his dad instead of playing video games with me and spell checking my fan fiction. Loser. _

_-The Evil Duck _

_PS: Sorry this is taking me so long to write, it will be this slow until the summer when I have far more time to just sit around and write. _

Sirius Black

12 Grimmauld Place

London, England

10:30 AM

Deep in the slums of London there is an invisible castle. The castle was once called The Manor of The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, and the family who once lived there from the Norman Invasion to the mid-nineteen-ninties, used to own a good percent of London. Although even the most knowledgeable London scholar has probably never heard of them.

The once-manor house has been compressed to fit between numbers 10 and 14 Grimmauld Place. Although you'd probably never even realize there is a gap between the two houses let alone that number 12 is missing. Even after being told, if you were to walk down said street you'd forget the invisible castle entirely and keep walking without reason, trying to remember why you stepped down the near alleyway into the pit in the first place.

The castle, which once covered the entire street in both directions, was then squeezed vertically, climbing skyward like a spiral staircase or, better yet, a serpent. It has in total, not counting the tower which grew above the house, seven floors. It towers above the ordinary street below it. The tower coils upwards spinelessly, without point or direction. It had once been one of four, and this was the south tower which had been used for the Black Family's astronomy expertise. It had been the highest and now it was the only tower left. In the year 1960 it became the bedroom sweet for Orion and Cassiopeia Black's eldest son, Sirius, who was the final occupant of the house in 1996. Now it still exists, aging into decay, deteriorating into oblivion. But this isn't a story about the castle, The House, or its eventual end. This is the story of beginnings and the child of The Noble and Most ancient House of Black...

"Sirius!" Cassiopeia Blacks voice came twisting up the staircases of number 12 Grimmauld Place. Her eldest son staggered down from his tower bedroom, pulling a red sock on his left foot that failed to match the green one he was already wearing on his right. He had a tooth brush clasped between his teeth, his new black school robe under one arm, one shoe missing, the other lying like a dead animal in the dark medieval hallway below. Sirius tripped down the stairs while still looking almost surreally perfect. None of the mornings rush showing any effect on him.

"Sirius!" she bellowed again even more angrily and shrilly so that the entire house seemed to shake. Sirius knew he was in trouble.

"It was Regulus!" Sirius shouted back, spraying the green hallway rug with white toothpaste foam. He had the tube in the back pocket of his new Hogwarts uniform pants.

"Get down here this instant!" she screeched.

"I told you, it was Regulus!" Sirius ducked into the fourth floor bathroom, rinsing his mouth and pocketing his toothbrush to add to the trunk Kreachur the house elf had waiting for him by the front door. "I begged him not to but he wouldn't listen to me!" Sirius paused to throw his robes over his head, realizing too late that they were inside out and backwards. He ripped them off again while running down the stairs. He found his right shoe holding the door to the second floor of the library opened. He pulled it free, ramming it on his foot.

Sirius slid down the railing to the first floor. He turned sharply, sliding down a second railing into the pit of the kitchen. "He's a madman, mum! Mad, I tell you!" He looked over at the intricately carved wooden table. The wood was stained black, carved snakes with emerald eyes and silver scales twinned up the legs. The chairs at both ends of the table were similar, huge and throne-like with the Black family crest carved into the high backs.

Orion Black didn't look up at his son as he entered the room, but his presence was felt. Orion was sitting farthest from his son at the head of the table. His face was hidden inside the Daily Prophet. Sirius immediately went quiet. The huge smile that had been fastened semipermanantly across his lips faded immediately into memory.

Regulus was sitting near the center of the long table on the right side, watching as his brother Sirius pulled back the emerald encrusted chair across from him before sinking into it. "Tell me what I did, Sirius," said Regulus smirking slightly, glancing over at their father.

Sirius did the same, his eyes darting quickly, worriedly, a frightened quivering half glance, before answering quietly so no one but Regulus could hear, "everything, you little git."

Kreachur came toting a heavy silver platter above his head just as Cassiopeia took her seat at the opposite end of the table as her husband gracefully and slowly. She truly resembled the queen whose chairs these seemed to be. She had heavily lidded, long eye-lashed eyes the color of frost. Her hair was pulled back into a braided knot at the back of her head, two delicate strands were braided in front pulled along her ears to meet it. She was thin, tall, and shapely with fairy-tale pale skin and dark chestnut hair.

Regulus looked very much like his mother, except he was slightly shorter, with hair that was neither black nor brown but both. His eyes were not as cold as hers, even if they were the same color. His were also slightly wider, somehow more reflective and clear.

"Glad to see you're awake," Cassiopeia said to Sirius without looking at him. She took her silver plate off the tray Kreature was offering her.

Orion folded his newspaper as he took his food from the elf. Then his dark eyes settled almost painfully on his eldest son. Sirius swallowed hard. Orion and Sirius looked nearly identical. They both possessed a handsomeness and grace that Renaissance painters had struggled to work into their images of saints. They were both tall and pale with straight noses and piercing color-changing eyes. Sirius, of course, was acquiring the teen lank all boys possess until their later teens and the inperportionate hands and feet of puberty.

Orion was also far less idealistic than his son and it showed. His eyes were, at the moment, black in the pit of the kitchen, as hard and emotionless as coal. The man himself was very much the same: his perfect lips never smiled. Sirius possessed a powerful and disarming smile that managed to be both cocky and charming. Sirius's eyes were at the moment a bright summer sky blue.

Orion turned to his breakfast, "are you ready, Sirius?"

"What? Yeah--yes, yes sir," Sirius caught himself.

Cassiopeia placed her tea down onto its saucer without a sound. She looked up at her eldest son, "this is just what you need, Sirius, positive influence. Hogwarts will get you back on track and end this little phase once and for all."

"Not bloody likely," muttered Sirius to himself.

Regulus had heard, and Sirius was sure of that, but the younger boy didn't say anything to his parents, which was unusual. Regulus, like the rest of his family, believed that Sirius was just going through a phase, and, in Regulus's opinion his parents had to know everything Sirius did wrong to cure him of it. Regulus thought that when Sirius joined his cousins and family friends at Hogwarts he would become exactly what everyone wanted him to be.

Sirius's life had been planned out for him as had every other Blacks life long before the Blacks came to England in 1066. Sirius was supposed to go to Hogwarts, be sorted into Slytherin, become a member of the ministry, marry his cousin (whom his parents would chose for him), and father children whose lives would be exactly the same as his had been.

Sirius was far from willing to accept this lot in life.

"I trust you will behave yourself," Cassiopeia said watching her son with narrowed eyes. Sirius didn't answer, partially out of deliberate rudeness, partially because his mind was with the Hogwarts Express and the vast amount of Zonkos products he'd managed to buy when his parents weren't paying attention to him.

After a few moments of silence Orion caught his son's attention as only he could, "your mother is speaking to you," he said in his deep, slightly threatening voice, "I believe you will answer her."

"Yes," he said, "sorry sir, I will, Mother." He mentally smirked there was no way in Hell he would keep that promise.

_A/N: Grrr. This sucks. DAMN! It'll get better after this, I promise. I hope._


	5. Hogwarts Express

_A/N: w00t. School's finally out! Summer time! yay! No more SATs, no more finals, just kickin' back, relaxin', writing fan fiction and finding a summer job. Do'h! I'm sorry it's been like sixty thousand months but I haven't been able to do a lot lately (end of the year stuff, tests, homework, school stuff) but here we go. Much love to everyone who reviewed. This chapter is dedicated to you and to Vivian Wong my newest Beta. And Leigh-Anne Rea all way across the Atlantic in Northern Ireland. (I am coming to steal the puppies!) Much love. This is not dedicated to my chem final. I'm sure I got like a four on it. GAH! XP_

_-The Evil Duck_

_PS: Did you miss me? XD!._

Remus Lupin

Hogwarts Express

11:30 AM

Remus leaned his head against the vibrating glass of the compartment window, watching the world zoom by outside without really seeing it. Summer was still thick in the flower-scented air, hanging tangibly in the robin's egg-blue sky: the wavy heat lines, and strange mirages that reflected the spinning pistons of the scarlet train as if they were water. Inside the train the atmosphere was just as thick with happy anticipation and excitement.

Remus had watched from the window less than an hour earlier as all of his new classmates boarded the train, some looking nervous, biting their smiling lips and waving goodbye a thousand times to their families. The returning students greeted their old friends, laughing, recounting summers, and reminiscently retelling adventures both theirs and of various mutual friends. Now the old stone platform was miles and miles behind, leaving him alone and worried, whizzing toward his unknown fate.

Even in the absence of the off-white clock with its glowing hands, Remus felt the seconds tick slowly by, haunted by the shadows of the monstrous wolf. He wondered for a few moments if he would be able to fall asleep, and if he did, would he be forgotten and left behind on the train, sleeping in this soft velvet seat forever, never having to worry about his nightmares coming true. Remus wondered if the train would be searched. He wondered when it would be, how far away from the school would they be before he was found curled up by the dark window. Would they go back to London? Would they send him home? What would happen to him if he just refused to get off the train? He was beginning to drift off into a dream-sea of question marks and strange tangled plans when the knock came at the door.

Remus sat bolt upright, staring wide-eyed at the sliding compartment door like a cornered animal. His amber eyes were filled with primal fear and the power to fight tooth and claw for his survival, no matter what lurked behind that door.

"Oi!" said the voice of whomever had knocked. They banged against the glass this time. "Any room in there?"

"Y-y-yes," said Remus, nervously watching as the door was pulled open from the outside. The few moments it took for the boy to pull open the door seemed desperately, almost painfully, slow--revealing one whom Remus had come to think of as his Adversary. The boy came in, sliding the heavy wooden door closed behind him.

"Thanks mate," said the boy grinning, he had very white, very straight teeth. "I've been wandering around since we left London. Train's packed far past the gills." He looked over at Remus and arched an eyebrow, "You okay?" he asked. "You're looking kind of green."

"Yes. Fine. Thank you," said Remus never taking his amber eyes off the boy.

He was probably around Remus's age although he could have been older. His hair was jet black and fell just slightly into his eyes, making him look indifferent and rebellious. His eyes were grayish; Remus couldn't quite decide what color they were, because they seemed to be changing, they were a light blue-gray at the moment, something like the ocean just before a storm, with streaks of deep sapphire and midnight blue. He was already wearing his Hogwarts uniform and he looked like he was born in it. Remus still felt slightly awkward in his own. He was used to muggle clothes and the robe felt strange and unnecessary.

The boy shrugged and tossed himself onto the opposite velvet bench, stretching out lazily and extending his long legs so they rested next to Remus. Remus leaned his head against the window again, trying to ignore the boy and letting his forehead bang against the glass. The boy seemed content to ignore him for the moment, reaching into his robes and pulling out his wand. He began to play with it boredly. He flicked it idly and a shower of red and gold sparks burst from its tip. He looked up, saw Remus watching him, and smiled. Remus turned his head quickly back to the window.

"I'm Sirius, by the way," said the boy, readjusting himself so he could offer his hand.

"I'm…I am sorry…I think I missed…what are you serious about…?" Remus stared at the boy's hand for a few moments before he retracted it, sighing with an air that made Remus realize he wasn't the first person to make this mistake.

"No, no, no, not serious S-E-R-I-O-U-S, Sirius S-I-R-I-U-S, like the Dog Star, it's my name," He explained.

"Oh…okay…sorry…." said Remus.

"No big deal," said Sirius, waving his hand as if to knock Remus's apology out of the air. He watched Remus for a few seconds expectantly, as if waiting for the faded boy to fulfill his side of a deal. Remus remained quiet, so Sirius prompted, "And you are…?"

"Lupin," said Remus quickly, "Remus Lupin."

"You're a first year too, right?" asked Sirius, extending his feet again, putting his hands behind his head.

"Yes." said Remus quietly.

"Don't talk much, do you?"

"I'm sorry."

Sirius shrugged. "Any idea what house you'll get into?"

"No," said Remus. Then, remembering the boy's previous comment, said, "Do you?"

Sirius looked out the window, brow furrowed as if deep in thought, "Anywhere but Slytherin."

"Oh," Remus was unsure about what to do with this information, "Why?"

"I'm not like them," said Sirius, but Remus thought it sounded as though his new companion was talking to himself, so he turned back to the window.

There was a moment of silence that Sirius broke with the force of a bullet train, "So, what're you into?"

"I'm sorry?" Remus blinked. He wasn't sure what counted as normal conversation between children his age because he'd never had any kind of conversation with one before. In fact, there were few times that Remus ever remembered seeing anyone aside from his parents, and those were trips to St. Mungo's, when, in his wolf state, he'd hurt himself so badly neither parent could fix it. He shivered subconsciously.

"Shouldn't be," Sirius said with that too perfect smile, "just what do you like to do?"

"I don't know," Remus let his gaze settle outside the window, he wasn't sure he liked this boy.

Sirius shrugged, fiddling with his wand again. Remus thought he'd be able to go back to his fearful daydreams but Sirius started talking again. "You must be a really boring person if you can't tell me one thing you like," he said offhandedly. "Most people can at least name a band, or book, or quiddich team, or something like that."

"A what?" Remus had never thought about quiddich, never found much of an interest in it. It took him a moment to register what Sirius was asking.

Sirius looked up at him almost confusedly for a fraction of a second before saying, "you're a mudblood--" He seemed to realize he'd said something wrong and his eyes reflected that, flickering a strange green for a fraction of a second as he stuttered and corrected himself, "--I mean muggle-born, aren't you?"

Remus swallowed. _A Mudblood. _He was talking to a pure blood. Not only a pure blood, but a fairly prejudiced one at that. He was in trouble. Remus bit his lip. "No," he answered truthfully.

Sirius furrowed his brow, "half and half?"

"Yes," he said.

"Where do you live?" Sirius asked.

"Scotland," Remus answered, wishing he'd never allowed the other boy in. He could have lied. He could have said it was full. He could have fallen asleep and just wasted away.

There came another knock on the door, louder this time.

Before Remus could answer Sirius called, "it's open!"

"Thanks." Another boy about their age entered, followed by a fourth. The speaker was on the taller side, with messy black hair that stood almost vertically. He had a very long, classically British face with a long straight nose, and deep brown eyes. He, too, was wearing his Hogwarts uniform but it had an unworn, stiff quality that Sirius had somehow managed to avoid.

The other boy didn't say anything at first. He was short, slightly heavy, with wide blue eyes, a pointed nose, and a mess of short blonde hair. Everything about the boy was somehow awkward. When he walked he seemed to trip. He smelled like sweat. When he closed his mouth his slightly buck teeth rested on his lower lip. He smiled slightly at Sirius and fell into the seat next to Remus, who moved uneasily away closer to the window.

The taller boy hadn't sat down yet but was looking Sirius over with scrutiny. "I've seen you somewhere before, haven't I?" Sirius seemed to be thinking the same thing.

"What's your sur--?" Sirius began but stopped himself.

"I know I've seen you somewhere..." the boy continued, "I think...I think I met you at Ollivander's!"

Sirius grinned, "That's right! Yeah! Sirius Black." Sirius gestured for the other boy to sit down.

"That's an unfortunate name," said the brown eyed boy taking his seat next to Sirius, "James Potter."

"You nearly detonated the shop when you found your wand--that was brilliant!"

"I know, but you sent Ollivander across the room!" James said grinning broadly. They kept talking, but it all became a series of sounds to Remus, he truly didn't know what they were saying. The background noise turned to static, two words echoed through his mind _Sirius Black_.

A Black?

He remembered his father's parting words: _Whatever you do Remus, I want you to be wary of who's around you. Not everyone is your friend; far from it, unfortunately. I want you to promise me you'll keep a low profile. Some people...some families you should avoid all together, especially the Blacks. Orion Black is the head of the Magical Beings and Beasts Division of the Ministry. He has a special hatred for...for...well I think you can guess. _

Remus gulped audibly then heard his own name and looked up.

"His name is something Lupin...Remus right?" Sirius looked at him and Remus nodded weakly. "He's practically mute," Sirius added. He and James had obviously been conversing loudly since James sat next to him and the third boy, whose name Remus still did not know, watched them as if it were a tennis match. His large blue eyes darted between them, focusing on the speaker, as he listened with rapt, slightly slack-jawed interest. "So who's he?" Sirius asked, pointing at the smaller boy.

The blonde cleared his throat and swallowed, paused then said in a quivering voice, "I'm...er...I'm Peter...Peter Pettigrew."

The other two looked at the boy seated next to Remus for a few seconds, neither with much interest, before diving back into their own conversation. Peter looked helplessly at Remus, who continued to stare, almost blindly, out the window.

Soon the sun was at touchdown in the West, throwing final fiery streamers into the purpling heavens. Stars began to burst into life in the velvety sky. The moon was no where in sight, Remus shivered, he always liked to see it, to know when he was safe. James and Sirius had almost bought the entire contents of the snack trolley. They offered to share, and although Peter greedily joined them, finally elbowing his way into conversation, Remus declined in favor of watching the world outside the window as it faded to black. The landscape around them was hidden by the darkness so all that Remus could see was the blanket of the sky, it was easy to think, (not even imagine), that the train was streaming across the milky way, jetting through the nothingness of space. The moon was rising slowly now and Remus finally looked away into the compartment, content in knowing his enemies whereabouts.

Fifteen minutes later the train lurched to a stop.


End file.
